Hunting Grounds
by emi-lylizbanks
Summary: A collection of lengthy Supernatural one-shots I've decided to write.
1. The Fox and the Hound

**Picture this.**

A man is running through the forest—just off the government-watched state park grounds outside Olanta, South Carolina. He's a hunter, chasing down prey for food and for sport. However, this time around he's found himself on the wrong end of the deal. In a trip gone amiss, he's now being chased—his predator in hot pursuit and moving through the trees faster than any person ever should. He knew there had been disappearances in that neck of the woods recently. He'd be damned if he succumbed to the same thing; call it a matter of pride.

It's a common trope for the protagonist in this situation to stumble upon some sort of obstacle—such as a vine or a tree branch—that causes them to trip. It has been used countless times in cinema. Our hunter here never bought into it; after all, it was just to manufacture tension. No real person was idiotic enough to trip like that without fail. At least, that's what he would have said before his current situation. Given it was the dead of autumn, the floor was covered in hazards that were all delicately concealed beneath layers of brown leaves. It was much more difficult to remain upright than he'd imagined it'd be. Still, he held his ground. He knew enough about hunting to know he couldn't stop. He wasn't sure whether he was gaining ground on his pursuant or not, but he dared not look back. He was struggling enough to stay on his feet running forwards; backwards was suicide.

He heard his chaser call out for him. "You can't out run me," the voice said—a woman's voice that sent chills down his spine. Breathing heavier than ever, he picked up his pace slightly.

"Try me, bitch," he taunted, now feeling more confident than was warranted. As if to intentionally put him in his place, the woman appeared in front of him. He could have sworn she showed up out of thin air. Desperate to survive, he stopped himself before reaching her arms' length and darted off in the opposite direction.

For a time, he couldn't hear her following him. He wanted to believe she'd stopped her chase, but he, as a hunter himself, knew that was a simple delusion of arrogant optimism. It was a tactic he'd used himself many times; being as still and quiet as possible while never losing sight of the target, giving a false sense of security and stripping it away with blood.

He refused to be eliminated using his own tactics, humility be damned. However, out of a blend of curiosity and nerve, he paused for a hot second to turn and look around to try and pinpoint her location. After all, if he went in blind, for all he knew he'd be heading right for her, and he couldn't afford to take that chance with his life literally hanging in the balance.

He was panting as he surveyed the surroundings. In every direction he saw nothing but uninterrupted forest; everything looked identical between north, south, east, west, and everything in between—with the exception of his own trail of footprints coming toward him from the northwest. Wherever she was, it could be absolutely anywhere, and, as it stood, he'd have no way of knowing unless she wanted him to.

Feeling somewhat defeated, he sighed and decided to start heading dead east. Better to keep going in the wrong direction and die trying than to stand still and wait for an inevitable death. Besides, if by chance he picked the right way, he had a chance of survival—and he was the gambling type.

So, now with more resolve than ever, he sprinted through the trees, hoping to lose her amongst the foliage.

He didn't.

Just like she had done earlier, she appeared before him from seemingly nowhere, stopping him dead in his tracks. However, before he'd been lucky enough to get away. He couldn't manage to repeat it.

He was now in her grasp, thrashing and fighting like his own game would in his place. Too little, too late, but he began to sympathize with his prey in that instant.

She separated his head from his shoulders with nothing but brute force, and that was the end of that.

 **Sam and Dean Winchester assumed the hunt a week later.**

 **27 October**

"Run me through what we're dealing with again," Dean instructed Sam as he drove down I-95. It wasn't often that the Winchesters entered states via the main-access highways—tolls are a bitch, after all. However, when the opportunity presented itself, Dean wasn't necessarily going to shoulder it. What could be more appealing to him than taking the interstate? The only place Dean Winchester was more in-his-element than when on a hunt was driving fast, one hand on the wheel, windows down. And so here he was doing exactly that, hauling ass from one comfort zone to the next.

"Last week a man was found dead in the forest outside Olanta. With his head detached. Ripped clean off his shoulders."

"Ripped?"

"Yeah—like, actually ripped."

"Sounds like one of ours."

"And get this—he's not the first body. Two women went missing the week before, and a group of men on a hunting trip vanished just a few days before them. All seven were found dead—but by a bullet to the heart."

"That doesn't sound like one of ours."

Sam shrugged. "I mean, seven deaths so close together like that—followed by an eighth that has the coroner stumped? We've driven farther for less, Dean."

"Fair enough, then," Dean conceded with a shrug, putting the pedal closer to the metal as he picked up the pace to Olanta.

Within an hour, they arrived at their motel, a conveniently-located lodge-style joint just a few miles from the supernatural hunting ground. However, they'd chosen the spot for more than its proximity. As it stood, the eight corpses belonged to people who'd rented there and never made it home. A place that suspicious warranted a Winchester's attention.

"We need to book a room," Dean informed the clerk, inclining his chin to appear professional.

"We're not open. The property's taken a nasty hit from all the recent deaths—bad publicity and all," she replied. "Sorry, boys. Looks like you'll have to find somewhere else." Sam noted how she signed what she was saying as she spoke.

"Lot of disabled patients out here?" he asked, looking down to her hands then back up to her face.

She nodded. "It's a bit of a popular destination for the elderly; we see a lot of people come in out here that are hard of hearing or blind or otherwise. Helps make my job easier if I can sign," she informed. She cleared her throat. "But none of that matters, because we're closed. Good day, gentlemen."

"We have cash," Sam said, stepping forward to stand next to Dean, who shifted slightly to his right to make way. "And, well, we're here on federal business."

"Federal?" she asked, skeptical. She narrowed her eyes, examining them and their effects. "I highly doubt that. Take it elsewhere, would you? I've had my fill of hunters this week."

"Hunters?" the Winchesters echoed in unison. They both looked at one another before directing attention back to the clerk.

"Yeah—you know, hunters. Surly men, deep voice—bit of a gut. Gun fetish. Hunters. This far into the woods, it's not uncommon for them to turn up here, but usually we don't see this many until deer season. But everyone's just dying to catch the thing responsible for these killings—or, the person, I suppose. It's been a crazy couple of weeks 'round these parts."

Dean rolled his eyes and looked back up at his brother. It appeared that they and the clerk had two differing definitions of the term _hunter_. Nevertheless, he cleared his throat and placed a hand on the table as he looked to her again, intent on securing the location. "Look, uhm…" he trailed off as he eyed her name tag. "Rebecca. We're not hunters, okay? We're federal. We have proof," he insisted.

"Let me see it, then."

"Sure thing," Sam assured. He and Dean reached into their jackets and procured two charlatan FBI badges. "Agents Coverdale and Lifeson."

She pursed her lips, clearly still put off by the situation. "Right. And why exactly did the FBI send a member of Deep Purple and the guitarist from Rush into God's country, South Carolina?"

"Your town's got eight dead bodies on its hands, Rebecca. Sounds like our kind of gig to me," Dean answered. "Now, how about that room?"

She rolled her eyes, but obliged. "Here's a key," she replied, handing it to Dean. "Good luck with your investigation. Everyone either goes into that forest and comes out with nothing or doesn't come out at all."

"We're professionals," Dean assured. "I think we got some tricks up our sleeve whatever the hell is out there isn't prepared for."

She shook her head, but her smile told a different story. "Like I said," she responded, turning to face him. "Good luck."

§§§§§

The Winchesters took up, albeit temporary, residence in the motel, tossing their bags onto their respective beds and looking the place up and down. For a joint in the backwoods, it was decently well-kempt—far better accommodations than they typically received. There weren't any mysterious scents or stains, so it was a success in their eyes—though perhaps their bar was too low.

Settled in the best they could be, Sam pulled his laptop from his belongings and plugged it in. He sat down at their table and gave Dean a shrug. "What do you say we hit up the morgue?"

"Thought you'd never ask," Dean replied, faking wistfulness.

Sam rolled his eyes but gave Dean a reluctant chuckle. He took a second to find the address before getting back to his feet and following his brother out the door.

Once they arrived, they were greeted by the local coroner—an aging man with a boy's features and a short fuse. He scowled at their badges upon being presented them, long enough that Sam and Dean began fretting they'd maybe been found out.

To their relief, they hadn't been. The explanation they received was, "Damn feds. If _you're_ here, it means we got so much more paperwork to deal with. You know, I moved out of Charleston and into the country to _avoid_ shit like this."

Dean and Sam exchanged looks before Dean raised an eyebrow to the coroner. "Right, well, our apologies, I guess?" he replied, somewhat taken aback. "How about we make this short and we'll get out of your hair as quick as we can. Hell—we'll even handle that paperwork for you."

The coroner pursed his lips, leading the boys to the morgue where he pulled out the slot containing the relevant cadaver's body and a bin that held his head. "Here he is, gentlemen. Adam Frost—good hunter, but that's about all I could tell you. Bit of a drifter. Been in and around these parts for years, but didn't own any properties in town—motel hopper, I assume. That's all we got on him."

Sam nodded slightly, surveying the remains. "Thank you," he said. "We'll take it from here."

"Hey, you're taking over—whatever you say," the coroner replied, stepping out of the room. "If you want the other stiffs, I've got the women, but the men I can't speak for."

"What happened to them?" Dean asked, his interest now piqued. "I thought you said they were killed by a shot to the heart."

"No, I said the _women_ were killed that way, but I guess the reporters tagged the men with that line too. Those bodies were incinerated."

"You cremated them?" Sam questioned.

"No—not us. Whoever killed them. We never issued a presumed cause of death for them because the bodies were ash by the time we got to them. Best guess? Whoever killed the girls shot the men and tried to cover their tracks. But word got out, and by the time this… psychopath got around to the women and Adam over there, he couldn't be bothered anymore."

"Right," Dean replied, looking back to Adam's corpse. "Thanks."

"Good luck, you two," the coroner scoffed. "The Bureau's about to have a field day with this one." With that, he left, allowing Sam and Dean to discuss their angles.

"What the hell?" Dean asked.

"I got nothing."

"No, seriously, Sam. What the hell?"

"Dean, I don't know. Three groups of targets, three distinct causes of death? Five bodies cremated? I couldn't _begin_ to explain this."

"Maybe it just ain't our problem, Sam. Some deranged dick shot the women and burned the men alive."

"And then what? Developed superhuman strength and decapitated Adam with his bare hands? Yeah, you're right. Sounds like your average Dahmer to me."

"Alright, alright, settle down. We'll keep digging, but, Sam, I don't even know where to start."

"Start here," Sam suggested, placing Adam's head in front of his brother.

Dean sighed, pulling the bin towards himself. "What exactly am I looking for here?" he asked as he began examining, his face reflexively contorted in disgust.

"Anything helpful," Sam replied with a shrug. "How should I know?"

Dean rolled his eyes but kept digging nonetheless. Sure enough, he uncovered something useful. "Well, that's a gamechanger," he said, his eyes widening slightly.

Sam inclined his head. "What is it?"

"Marie Antoinette's got himself a set of retractable vampire fangs," Dean said with a sigh, pushing the bin away from himself. "Things just got interesting."

"Alright, so maybe Adam was responsible for the deaths and a hunter got to him."

"Right, because so many vampires like to shoot and/or burn their prey without taking a bite for themselves."

"Maybe not," Sam sighed. "So then what the hell?"

"You ask that like I have any more answers than you do," Dean scoffed. "I'll tell you one thing though—I'm willing to bet those women ate bullets made of silver."

Taking up his brother's hunch, Sam read the names on the slots until he found one he recognized from the article and pulled her out. In a small plastic bag next to her, he found the bullet she took and tilted his head to the side. Sure enough, "Silver," he confirmed. As he went to put the body back, his nail grazed her shin and ripped a tear in her flesh. His body tensed as he pulled at the skin, taking it clean off the muscle. "Shapeshifter's skin," he assessed.

"I'll repeat," Dean replied. "Things just got interesting."

§§§§§

"Okay, so clearly it's some kind of… super-charged something, right?" Dean said, pacing around the motel room as he and Sam tried to come up with a theory.

"It's got to be a hunter," Sam established. He was situated in front of his laptop, sitting at the table with his head in his hands, thoroughly defeated in the moment. "There's nothing else it _could_ be. It's only going after monsters, right?"

"Yeah, sure," Dean conceded. "But that last kill wasn't something your average hunter could swing, Sammy. Something's definitely up around here, I just can't for the life of me figure out what the hell it is."

Sam sighed, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms. "You got me," he replied, shaking his head slightly. "I don't even know if I can say for sure we should even be _after_ it."

"How do you figure?"

"Well, I mean, so far it's done nothing but good, right? In theory? It's taken down a vampire and two shapeshifters—and that's what we know of. Those five men could have been anything. Isn't it more of a public service than a threat?"

"Sammy, when has it _ever_ been that easy?" Dean scoffed. "I want to say I agree, but I don't feel comfortable walking away from this just yet—not until we get some other information at least. If it's actually helpful, we'll let it walk—we've done it before. But let's at least do our damn job and do it right first, how about it?"

Sam shrugged. "Sounds good to me," he agreed. "But how do you figure we find anything out. So far, it's only ever gone after inhuman things, and the two of us are flesh and blood men."

Dean pursed his lips, stopping his pacing to come up with a plan. "Do you think it'll go for Cas?"

Sam raised an eyebrow. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out, so he closed it and sighed through his nose, looking down to his hands. Dean inclined his chin as he awaited his brother's verdict, which couldn't come sooner—he was growing fairly impatient.

"He's supernatural, ain't he?" Dean added, vouching for his idea.

"He's an _angel_ , Dean," Sam scoffed.

"Which makes him not human."

"But he's not a _monster_ ," Sam refuted. "So far this thing's only gone for Eve's creations. Who's to say something of God would do the trick?"

"Who's to say it wouldn't?" Dean replied. "Look, if you got a better solution, I'm all ears. Until then, I say we give it a go."

"So what—we offer him up as bait to the supernatural killing machine?" Sam questioned, now looking his brother dead in the eyes, narrowing his own.

"I think Castiel can hold his own against… whatever it is that's out there."

Sam shook his head.

"Like I said, I'll take whatever solution you seem to have that's any good."

Sam sighed. "Alright, fine," he conceded. "We'll give it a shot."

"That a boy, Sammy."

"But we're tailing him—keeping him out of trouble."

"It's almost like he didn't spend millennia fighting heavenly battles or something," Dean chuckled. "He's an _angel_ , Sam. Give the man some credit."

Sam rolled his eyes, but he wore a smile nonetheless. He extended his hands toward Dean. "Well," he prompted, clapping them back together. "It's all you."

"What? Why?" Dean protested, furrowing his brows.

"Because—after _everything_ —the man still answers to you better," Sam replied coolly. "And besides, it was your idea anyway. So pray to him."

"Yeah, look, I've got a better idea," Dean said, retrieving his cell from within his jacket. "We're living in the 21st century, Sam. Who needs praying when I have an angel on speed dial?"

Sam shook his head at his brother, but his smile still remained intact. "I guess that works too," he conceded, standing up and leaning against the wall with his arms crossed.

Dean pulled up Cas' number in his contacts and tapped it to give it a rang, casually putting the phone to his ear and resting his arm against the headboard of the bed waiting for the line to pick up. Impatient as he was, he began drumming his fingertips on the headboard.

"Dean?" a familiar voice greeted, confused but inviting nonetheless. Dean noted the hint of concern in his friend's salutation—after all, Dean only ever called from a hunt if something was horribly sideways, so as far as Castiel knew the Winchesters had gotten themselves somewhere they couldn't get out of. "What's going on? Are you okay?"

"We're fine, Cas," Dean assured with a light chuckle. "Calm down; nothing's wrong. We're just following up on a hunch."

"What is it, then?"

"This hunt got a little… stranger than we were expecting. Figured you could help out," Dean said, putting off asking for help for as long as he could manage it.

"You're going to need to tell me more if you want me to actually be able to do anything, you know."

"Basically, whatever the hell we're tracking—it's not after humans."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. Everyone that's died has been a monster; the most recent was a vampire, the women were shapeshifters, and the group of men could be fucking anything. The point is, Sam and I aren't exactly this thing's type, if you catch my drift?"

"You're asking me to bait your trap."

"Well, when you put it that way…"

"Where are you?"

"Olanta, South Carolina. It's just shy of a day's drive out here from the bunker."

"I'll get there as soon as I can, Dean."

"Thanks, man. Really owe you one. And hey, for the record—Sam and I will be right behind you the whole time. Got nothing to worry about."

"I wasn't worried, Dean. If I were worried, you'd have known. But Dean—are you sure this is going to work anyway?"

"What's stopping it?"

"I mean, I'm not human, but I'm an _angel_ , Dean. I don't know of anything but a demon, a hunter, or another one of us that'd be dumb enough to try and contest that."

"Right, Sam said the same thing. But unfortunately, we're fresh out of werewolves and ghouls, so looks like you're the best bet we got right now, don't it?"

"I'm on my way," Castiel replied, hanging up once he had.

"He's on his way," Dean relayed to Sam, tossing his phone on the bed with a shrug.

§§§§§

Before Castiel would arrive, the Winchesters had almost a full day on their hands to kill. Sam insisted they use the time to figure out as much as they could in the meantime. After all, a full day open on a hunt was a godsend. Dean, however, substantiated that they lay low and wait it all out. After all, they still weren't going to attract their prey's attention; it hadn't been taking humans the whole time it had been active, why would it start just because the Winchesters were in town?

"So what? We're just supposed to sit here with our thumbs up our asses doing nothing? What if whatever's out there hasn't been doing this out of the goodness of its heart, Dean? We could _try_ to snuff it out, wouldn't you say?"

"It's a good idea in theory, Sammy, but it's not going to go for us. Our friend out there ain't got a taste for human flesh—what was the word for it Travis taught me?"

"Long pig?"

"Yeah, that. It hasn't got a taste for long pig, and you know it. So what's the use in going out there to achieve nothing when we could actually take a moment to _breathe_? I mean, really, Sammy. When in the hell does a _hunter_ ever get the chance to take it easy for roughly 20 hours?"

"Fine. You stay here and do jack, and _I'll_ go use this time to our advantage."

"You say that until you come up empty-handed."

Sam rolled his eyes and headed out the door anyway. He wasn't angry with Dean for their disagreement; it wouldn't be the first time something along the lines had happened, after all. Still, he was just competitive enough to have his mind, body, and soul gunning for something to prove his brother wrong—for no reason but pride, as it stood. Leaving Dean behind, he wandered out into the lobby. Truth be told, he was heading out blind; other than Castiel, who wouldn't be in for a good bit of time, they had no leads—hell, they weren't sure Cas would prove to be a lead anyway. Nonetheless, he was determined to make some sort of progress in the meantime, leads be damned.

As he looked over the lobby, his eyes caught Rebecca and a realization came to him. "Of course," he said to himself, making strides toward her as she stood still at her post behind the front desk. He continued talking to himself, saying, "Everyone that… _thing_ out there got—every single monster—rented out here." He was beginning to put things together; Rebecca would have met all the victims. Surely her resolve to remain in her position despite the closure of the motel _and_ her establishment's connection to the deceased wasn't coincidental. As fate would have it, hunting wasn't a profession rife with coincidence.

She noticed his approaching before he said a word. Odd, given how quiet his footsteps were. Upon seeing him, she tensed her entirety. However, once he arrived, she cleared her throat and threw her hair over her shoulder, acting casual. "Agent Coverdale," she greeted, feigning a collected smile.

"Rebecca," he returned, inclining his chin. "I have some questions to ask you," he informed. He tossed his counterfeit badge to the side. "Off the record," he added, leaning into her.

Her eyes widened and Sam noticed her getting slightly less comfortable. "If you're trying to ask me out, the answer's no. Some advice? Get a less intimidating tactic."

"I'm not looking for trouble. Or a hook-up, actually. I just want some intel."

She sighed. "Yeah, I know. Figured you were going to ask about the goings-on 'round here at some point. Expected the 'off the record' play too. I know your kind, Winchester."

He narrowed his eyes. "You know my name?"

"Yeah, of course. You're a friend of hers, she said. She told me you and your brother would be around eventually. Said not to get in your way. So I'm not."

"Right," Sam said, nodding slowly. "And who might _she_ be?"

Rebecca shrugged. "Hell if I know. She never said."

Sam sighed, but kept his shoulders back.

"And besides, you have to give me credit. My kind knows a hunter when he walks in the door," she scoffed.

"Your _kind_?"

She nodded. "Lycanthrope, werewolf, whatever you want to call it. I was born into it—second generation. But don't worry about me, Winchester. All I've done the whole time is help her find her targets when they walk in that door," she said, pointing to the entrance. "I can sniff out a supernatural being as easily as a human, you know. It's been a major help, she said."

Sam pursed his lips.

"Honest to god, I haven't hurt anyone. Use your brain, Winchester. I obviously live in the middle of god's country for a reason, right? I've been feeding off wildlife my whole life. You got nothing to worry 'bout with me. And as far as she's concerned, you needn't worry there either. All she's doing is exactly what y'all would in her position—hunting."

"Thanks, Rebecca," Sam said abruptly, not bothering to pay proper thanks for the insight. He turned and walked away, heading straight out the door. Whoever—whatever—she was, he was going to find her. What he'd do when he did, he wasn't sure, but that wasn't important in the moment. She knew him—and presumably his brother. The hunt had gotten more personal and exceptionally more interesting, as it had been by the minute it would appear.

§§§§§

Castiel finally arrived, and upon meeting Rebecca the two of them were instantly apprehensive of one another. "We're not open," she stated before taking note of his scent as she rummaged through papers on the desk. Once she did, she looked up at him, her eyebrows furrowed.

"Werewolf?" he asked, tilting his head to the side. "Did Dean call me in on a werewolf hunt? Must be losing his touch."

"What the _hell_ are you?" she asked, panting. "I can tell you're not human, but I—your scent is unfamiliar."

"I'm an angel of the Lord," he informed coolly. "And I'm assuming you're the problem around here. Though, admittedly, I'm curious as to why you'd prey on Eve's descendants and not humans."

"Check your facts, feathers," she taunted. "None of those bodies had their hearts missing. That ain't werewolf behavior. Please just—just leave me alone, okay? I'll give you a room, information, whatever. Hell, I won't even tell her you're supernatural; I'll say you're just a passing man in need of shelter and she'll leave you right alone."

"Who will?"

"God, not this again. Look, you little tree topper, I don't know. All I can tell you is two fucking _Winchesters_ show up here and an _angel_ follows them and the whole thing is above my paygrade. Just leave me out of it, okay?"

Castiel rolled his eyes, but obliged. "Alright," he conceded. "You said the Winchesters? How do you know them?"

"Because she does," Rebecca said, her voice still tense. "She told me not to get in their way, so I've been nothing but help. Ask, uhm—I don't know who's who, but I gave the giant one all the intel I have. I'm trying to be a wallflower here. Just like she wanted."

"Right," Castiel said. He inclined his chin. "Well, we want to meet her," he replied. "So if you could do me a favor and tell her I'm… not human, that'd help."

"She doesn't have the equipment to kill an angel; just enough to take out the run-of-the-mill lowlifes. You know, vamps, wolves, skinwalkers, the like."

"Then tell her I'm something else."

"Fine, okay, I will. Just, for the love of Christ, leave me be otherwise, alright?"

"You have my word."

She stepped away from the desk and headed into a room marked _Employees Only_. As Castiel made to go to the Winchesters' room, he heard her call out the number to him.

He headed there, but was stopped in his tracks partway down the hall by Sam, who'd just come back in after seeing the headlights from Castiel's car. "Hey, Cas," he greeted, his hand resting on Castiel's shoulder. They continued towards the room.

"Are you and your brother aware that the clerk is a werewolf?" Castiel asked, ignoring the greeting entirely.

" _I_ am," Sam replied. "I decided to do some digging while we waited up for you. And I hate to break it to you, but I think you made a trip out here for jack."

"What?"

"I'll explain it when we get to the room. Dean's going to want to hear all of this."

§§§§§

"A _ghost_?" Dean and Castiel exclaimed in unison.

"So why is she only going after monsters?" Castiel asked, his eyes narrow.

"Because she was a hunter when she was alive," Sam answered. His eyes met Dean's. "She knew us. I didn't get a look at her, but Rebecca at the front desk told me everything she could. She didn't know what exactly the hunter was, but the second I went out to that forest, I felt cold spots out the ass. It's a hunter's ghost, guys. It's got to be. That's why she's only after creatures, not people. I guess she thinks it's her unfinished business, you know? Hunting whatever remains on this god forsaken earth? Noble enough, I suppose."

"How exactly does Rebecca know anything about this?" Dean asked, now more confused than before. "And how does this… _ghost_ even know us? I don't know of a hunter—let alone an ally of ours—dying out in Olanta."

"Rebecca's a werewolf," Sam and Castiel informed simultaneously.

"A _werewolf_?" Dean scoffed. "This just keeps getting better. I take it Smitey McSmiterton over here iced her, then?"

"Not exactly," Castiel admitted.

"Why not?" Dean exclaimed.

"Because she's only feeding off the wildlife," Sam interrupted.

" _Actually_ , her diet was fairly inconsequential. I told her I would let her be as long as she cooperated, and I like to keep to my word," Castiel replied. "Conveniently enough, however, yes, she's harmless."

"So let me get this straight," Dean said, gathering his thoughts. "Clerk lady's got claws, and we're hunting the ghost of one of our own who's so damn dedicated to the life she's out here taking them out from the grave. Except—and here's the kicker—apparently she's a friend of ours or something? Ain't buying it."

"Well, I say we go talk to her," Sam suggested, rising to his feet.

"I told Rebecca to tell her I'm a monster, not an angel. I should be enough to draw her out," Castiel said coolly.

"You told _Rebecca_ to relay information?" Dean asked.

"She can sniff out the supernatural, Dean. So when someone walks in and asks for a room, Rebecca lets the hunter know whether they're game or not. It's a pretty efficient system, seeing as nothing's made it through this joint without her ending them," Sam replied.

"Naturally," Dean remarked. He stood up too, and Castiel followed. "Well, alright, then. Let's talk to her."

And so the trio headed out to the woods. On their way through the lobby, they talked Rebecca into tailing them. After all, she and their ghost friend had a connection, so they thought her presence would be helpful should something go sideways. She was less than thrilled about it. "You _told_ me you'd leave me alone, angel," she pouted, staring daggers into Castiel.

"Honey, he's gotten worse than a glare for less; no one likes a whiner. And besides, we'll leave you alone _after_ we talk to your mistress. No one's going to hurt you, but we need you here in case she doesn't want to reason with us," Dean said, stepping in to defend his friend.

Rebecca scoffed, rolling her eyes at Dean. "She's not my 'mistress,'" she insisted. "We have a mutual thing. I give her targets, she protects me—keeps hunters off my trail."

"We're here," Dean retorted. "She clearly couldn't hold up her end."

"She said you were an exception."

"We get that a lot," Dean remarked, prideful.

"In the midst of all this chatter, did she ever tell you _why_ the Winchesters get a pass?" Castiel asked, trying to mediate the tensions. "Usually that's a red flag, you know. These boys' reputation doesn't help them."

"Thank you, Cas," Dean sighed, patting him on the shoulder. "I appreciate the optimism."

Castiel squinted his eyes, tilting his head. "Nothing I said was positive, Dean."

Dean shook his head, but he wore a smile. "Angels, man," he commented to Sam, who had been tuned into the conversation but remaining out of it. He wanted to keep his focus on the hunt.

"I didn't bother her with too many questions. She didn't have many for me, so I left it well enough alone too. Besides, I didn't really give a damn, truth be told. Never had a hunter 'round keeping my ass alive before; she's been nothing but helpful to me. So whatever her reasons, they were good enough for me, honestly. But she did say y'all were friends when she was kicking—or allies? Either way, didn't seem like there was bad blood to me," Rebecca said with a shrug. "But ghosts are tricky. Hard to communicate between the veil. I could have gotten the wrong message."

"That's comforting," Dean said.

They all stopped, simultaneously feeling the temperature drop drastically.

"Got you, bitch," Dean called out to their guest, looking around the forest. No response. "Alright, here's our play. Rebecca, Sam, and I will hang back here and greet her if she pops up. Cas, you go out and… act like a… what is it you told her he is?"

"A banshee. She never tires of icing them," Rebecca informed.

"Alright, Cas, go act like a banshee," Dean instructed.

"I do not know how to do that," Castiel admitted.

"It ain't hard," Rebecca said. "Just don't do anything… angelic or whatever. Be _natural_. She already thinks you're a banshee, so it's not like she'll test you."

"Fine," Castiel replied, though still holding his doubts.

The four split up with Rebecca, Sam, and Dean waiting behind Castiel, hidden in the shadows of the forest.

It didn't take long for the signs of paranormal activity to pick up radically once Castiel was seemingly on his lonesome. The temperature dropped even further as the leaves in the trees began rustling. A gold dagger flew from a distance and grazed Castiel's shoulder despite his attempt to dodge it. Had he not been able to move, it would have pierced dead through his heart. As it happened, it was merely a flesh wound to his vessel; he would heal, no problem. After all, the ghost wouldn't possess an angel blade, so what could she possibly do to him that'd be a threat.

"You missed," he called, taunting her into the open.

He caught a quick glance of her, as she did him, and then there was silence; the wind ceased. Castiel furrowed his brows, confused. "Banshees are female," the ghost called out to him. "Who are you?"

Castiel looked behind him to where Dean was hidden, eyes wide. He shrugged, alerting Dean of his predicament. Dean's response was simply a nod. "Show yourself first," he commanded.

There was no response. Perhaps she hadn't heard him. So he repeated, louder this time, "Show yourself."

Rebecca tapped Sam on the shoulder. Making a point of him noticing her signing as she spoke, she told him, "My partner is deaf. She couldn't hear in life; she can't hear in death. Your angel friend's shouting is futile."

"She's deaf?" Sam asked, lights beginning to turn on in his mind as he realized who it was. "No way in hell… I forgot she died in this neck of the county, but I—I thought she was gone for good? She was _dead_."

"That's how ghosts work, Winchester," Rebecca retorted. She stepped out into the open, beside Castiel. She signed to her, "It's Rebecca. Come out, please."

There was a brief second of dead air before the ghost followed suit. "You're the angel," she stated coolly, looking Castiel up and down. "Castiel, I believe. They've mentioned you before. But what are—I thought there was a banshee?" she asked, looking over to Rebecca.

"Never was, Eileen," Sam greeted, revealing himself now. He spoke slower than usual so she could read his lips in spite of the darkness, even though Rebecca stood off to the side translating his words into sign language for her. Dean followed shortly thereafter. "It's been awhile."

Eileen smiled brilliantly upon seeing Sam and Dean. "Well, I'll be damned!" she exclaimed. She looked at Rebecca, near tearful with excitement. "Why didn't you just _say_ the Winchesters were in?"

"Because you never know with spirits, honey. You've been out here awhile, so I wasn't sure if you'd started… fixating yet," Rebecca admitted. "Besides, it's all good now."

Eileen nodded. She looked Sam and Dean over individually.

"This raises a problem though, you know," Dean said, the first to bring down the mood almost inevitably.

"How so?" Sam asked.

"She's a _spirit_ , Sam. We can't _leave_ her."

"Well, we can't burn the remains," Sam contested.

"Yeah, about that," Dean said, turning his attention to Eileen again. "How are you here? I assumed the Brits would have burned your bones." Rebecca signed his words too, which made up for his faster pace than Sam's. He slowed it down slightly when he noticed her squinting to make out the movements, and he took a step closer to her.

"They did," she informed. "But they were careless enough to off their targets using hellhounds. Traces of my blood are everywhere around here. There's no way they could have prevented this. Hindsight's a bitch."

Dean scoffed, amused. "Still, what exactly are we supposed to do about this?"

Castiel, saying nothing, stepped forward and placed a hand onto Eileen's forehead. The outline of his hand began to glow, and Rebecca, Sam, and Dean looked on with intrigue. All three expected him to be sending her off to Heaven, and so when he stepped away and revealed Eileen still standing before them, they were taken by surprise.

"What the hell did you do, Cas?" Sam asked, looking Eileen up and down.

"I brought her back," Castiel replied, proud. "I figured there was no getting rid of her, _and_ you two could use the allies. So I did a little resurrecting." There was a pause. "It pays to have an angel around, you know."

"Yeah, no shit," Dean remarked, utterly thrilled. "You're the MVP, you know that?"

And so all five exited the forest. Done with their hunt, the Winchesters and Castiel headed back to the bunker, taking Eileen with them. Rebecca opted to remain in Olanta, but made sure to keep the Winchesters' contact information. "If anything else pops up in Olanta, y'all will be the first to know," she said as she shook the boys' hands.

And for a time, all was relatively pleasant, all things considered.


	2. The Ducking Stool

**Picture this.**

Salem's a special city in that it gladly opens the doors to anyone, anything, anytime. The streets are littered with family-run joints selling supposed witch paraphernalia. Trial reenactments and museums for tourists are bountiful—businesswomen conduct seances and night tours. New England's very own Lily Dale. Most, of course, are hoaxes. Commercial knock-offs that bear the name but couldn't hold a candle to the real deal. Most, of course, wouldn't know honest-to-God, straight-from-Hell, pure-blooded witchcraft if it killed them. It's a gimmick—using the old With Trials as a launching pad for credibility.

However, with places like that, word's going to get out. Genuine magic-bearers have worked and continue to work their craft there. Unfortunately (or uncannily fortunately, depending on outlook), the abundance of charlatan practice tends to overbear and drive them out, leaving them in search of a less occupied place to perform. Nonetheless, some stay. For a time.

A beautiful day New England—it's been unseasonably warm in Salem, Massachusetts. It's a Saturday, so the children are out and about, frolicking and enjoying the winter sun. Parents are tailing them, making small talk, wondering about the uncharacteristic weather patterns as of late. But, generally, everything's typical, save for one woman.

She's in her late twenties. She lies low, lives comfortably. She's the single parent of a son, age seven. She works an average job, full-time in the insurance industry. She's so exceptionally ordinary she makes vanilla have spice. As such, when her son pleaded her to take him to a séance at one of the many places that perform them, she obliged, but warned him not to take things too seriously. After all, ghosts are not real. She didn't need her son pedaling the same mantras the rest of the city did.

So they went, along with her son's older cousin, Abigail, who was in town visiting—to our woman's dismay, for Abigail had her head so wrapped around the paranormal she couldn't tell fact from fiction it seemed.

The psychic they chose, her name was Divya. She started off her ritual praising her audience for choosing a genuine medium rather than one of the countless frauds they could have gone to. She appreciated the enthusiasm for authenticity in a town so rife with imposters. By night's end, she'd performed what our focal woman could only believe was a ritual as preposterously false as anywhere else would have. And thus, she and the children under her guidance exited—the kids ecstatic, herself less than so.

"Calm down," she told the children as they arrived at her residence—an apartment in center city she kept bolted from the inside. "It's late. I want you two in bed by the time I'm finished bathing, okay?" The children, still excited about their night out, nodded and ran to her son's little bedroom to talk until they needed to pretend to be asleep.

She rolled her eyes, heading the opposite way towards the tiny bathroom. As she did so, she noticed a few lights beginning to flicker. Confused, as she'd replaced them just a few days ago, she tapped them to try and knock them back into life. "I need to upgrade," she sighed, rolling her eyes once the issue ceased. Pushing it to the back of her mind, she began to ready herself for her shower. However, as she was retrieving a towel, she heard the water begin to run in the tub, stopping her dead in her tracks. Slowly, cautiously, she closed the closet door to lay eyes on the water. It had only been running for a few seconds, but the bath was beginning to overflow. Stricken by panic, she dashed over, trying desperately to pull the plug.

It happened in a blur.

The second she knelt over the tub, a noose—made of wiring from the extension cord in the closet—dropped from the ceiling and strung her up dead.

The water drained itself without a wet spot in sight.

 **It takes all of two days for Sam and Dean to pick up the case.**

 **14 January**

"How long's it been since we've decapitated something, Sammy?" Dean asked, entering the center room of the bunker with a mug of coffee, his body cloaked in a robe and is hair disheveled.

Sam shrugged. "Couldn't say," he replied, folding his arms across his chest.

"I'll tell you—too damn long," Dean replied, pulling a chair and taking a seat across from his brother. He placed the cup down to his left and leaned over the table, propping his upper bodyweight against his elbows. "Too goddamn long," he reiterated, sliding his chair inwards, grabbing his mug, and leaning back.

"Hey, I hear you," Sam agreed. "But it's been pretty quiet out there, Dean. It happens every now and then. Sometimes there just isn't work to be done, you know?"

"Not for this long—and not in this line of work. Something's _always_ stirring up trouble _somewhere_ , Sam. Just gotta look hard enough," Dean took Sam's laptop, which was sitting open at the end of the table, and pulled up an article he had found while making his coffee. "Check this one out," he said, turning the computer around to face his brother.

Sam read over the story, skeptical. "Since when is an isolated suicide our kind of thing, Dean? You know people don't always kill themselves because of supernatural reasons, right? Sometimes people are just unsteady. It happens."

"Sure, I get that. But the kids' stories aren't lining up. Police think they're imagining things."

"Her son is seven, Dean."

"And her niece is fourteen."

"And your point? A fourteen-year-old kid is just as capable of exaggerating as a seven-year-old. And besides, neither of them are even witnesses. The report says they just found the body."

"Sam, I don't trust Salem, Massachusetts to be radio silent."

"You've never been to Salem, Dean."

"Yeah, I know. Don't you think that's strange? Basically the witchcraft capital of the country and we've never had reason to be there?"

"Sure, but most of those people are frauds. Doubt many people—if any—are pedaling genuine craft. Don't know what to tell you. Doesn't sound like our kind of gig."

"Come on, Sam. This woman's the third body down since November. Not to mention these sudden suicides have been a pretty regular thing there over the past few decades—maybe centuries, if we could trace it far enough. How does that not strike you as odd?"

"Because, like I said, people kill themselves for multiple reasons."

"Well, until you got a better place to be, I'll be packing my shit to go to Massachusetts." He finished his coffee and got up from his chair. He began to walk towards the kitchen to return the mug, but turned around after noticing his brother hadn't moved. "You coming or not?"

Sam rolled his eyes, but ultimately he followed. He was up to Dean's wild goose chase if it meant escaping the bunker—hell, the entirety of Kansas, really—for a little while. He always hated stalls in their work; they made life awful dull, sitting around the bunker waiting for something to strike. And besides, his brother wasn't delirious—he'd been doing this job for even more time than Sam himself, after all. He trusted his older brother's gut instinct to be able to determine if something was worth the drive. If Dean thought it was a case, especially when they hadn't had an honest-to-God case in weeks, then by all means they'd take it as a case unless proven otherwise, contemplation be damned.

Within the hour, they were in the car on their merry way to Massachusetts. And by the time they arrived, Sam would receive a more convincing reason to call it a case.

 **§§§§§**

"We know this is a stressful time, Miss Stoughton," Sam said lowly, smoothly to their witness, the sister of the victim who brought them to town in the first place.

"Stressful?" she scoffed. "Doesn't cover it, Agent. But I guess I don't blame you; aren't many words out there meant to cover losing a sister and a nephew in a 48-hour period, huh?" she admitted. She wiped at her eyes, took a deep breath, and finally looked up at the brothers, her eyes darting back and forth between them.

"You have the Bureau's condolences," Dean told her, shrugging subtly at Sam when his brother raised an eyebrow. "But if you could please tell us what you saw—or what you think you saw."

"Why?" she asked, straightening her posture. "What's the FBI doing investigating suicides?"

"How about a deal, Miss Stoughton," Dean proposed. "You tell us your story, we'll tell you ours."

"Alright, fine," she conceded. She instantly dropped her eye contact, watching her agitation of hands like a crystal ball. "But I doubt it'll make an ounce of sense to you," she said with a hint of exceptionally unamused laughter. "The locals ain't even buying it."

"I think you'll find the FBI is a bit more… progressive than local police," Sam assured. "Just tell us exactly what happened."

She nodded. "After Josette died, we took in Henry. He's my late sister's little boy, it's the least I could do. Not to mention, he always got along splendid with my Abigail," she informed, her tone wistful. "It's hard to tell with a child that young, but it was pretty clear he hadn't taken his mother's passing very well—of course, no one expected that of him, naturally, but it does give him a motive, I suppose. I went to pick him up from his school—he was a first grader at the local elementary, had a few really good friends. They must be absolutely gutted.

"Anyway, I pull in to pick him up and he's crying—full-on red-faced crying. So, of course, I'm concerned. I got out of the car and he's holding a bloody rock. I ask him what happened and he says—in complete monotone, mind you, 'I had a reason, Aunt Heidi. Clarissa was a witch. She said her mother taught her to float—her mother taught her witchcraft, Aunt Heidi. So I stoned her to death as punishment for her sins.'

"That struck me—for more than the obvious. I loved that boy so very much, but he was never exceptionally bright. Had a nasty fall when he was maybe four or five, and ever since he's been a bit slow. No way in hell little Henry would know anything about Witch Trials—or, hell, no way he'd speak to me like that. Not to mention, no one ever saw what he did to Clarissa Danforth coming. She was just five, you see—a kindergartener. And she always got on so well with Henry; the two of them practically grew up together. And now they're both—

"Regardless, I could tell something was off about Henry, you know? But I took him home and drew him a bath and figured I'd deal with the legalities after he was tucked in. I swear to you, I turned around a minute to grab the bar soap and the next I know he's strung up in the ceiling. Couldn't even tell you where the rope came from."

Sam and Dean looked to one another, then back to Heidi, whose face instantly fell. "You don't even believe me anymore, do you?" she said, shaking her head. "Can't say I'm surprised. Sorry to have wasted your time, Agents."

She was prepared to get up, but Sam reached out and put a hand on her knee. "We definitely believe you, Heidi," he told her. Easing up, she resumed her seat. "Is there anything else you can tell us about Clarissa or Henry—important or otherwise?"

She stopped for a second to think before nodding. "I mean, Donovan Danforth—Clarissa's older brother, went postal at a local church. Boy killed 6 people before turning the gun around on himself."

"Do you have names?" Dean asked, retrieving a pad of paper from the desk in front of him and a pen from within his jacket.

She nodded again. "Felicity and Marcus Gedney, Peter Winthrop, Lucy and Alan Sewall, and Patricia Richards."

"Thank you, Miss Stoughton."

"Is that everything then, Agents?"

"Not quite," Sam said. "We told you we'd tell you our story, so here it is. We, at the Bureau, are opening up a new chapter—top-secret, of course—to snuff out the supernatural. There are a lot of seemingly impossible true stories like yours, Miss Stoughton; this is simply the Bureau's effort to thoroughly investigate."

"Federal Ghostbusters?" she scoffed, crossing her arms.

"But you can't go spreading it, you hear? Truth be told, I wasn't supposed to tell you any of that. What if you didn't believe me, huh?"

She rolled her eyes at him, but accepted his cover-up nonetheless. "I don't," she admitted with a chuckle. "But what do I know? I'm sure whatever your reason _actually_ is, it's decent. Can't see the FBI wasting its time and resources sending its boy band members up here from DC."

"Thank you for your time, Miss Stoughton. And again, condolences from the Bureau," Dean told her. He got to his feet as she did and put a hand on her shoulder just before she could turn to leave. "And, off the record, keep an eye out—for yourself and your daughter, you hear? We're not sure what's happening, but it sure as hell feels like this is working its way through the family. We'd hate to see either of you lose someone else."

"Thank you, Agent," she said with a smile, heading on her way.

Dean turned to face his brother, who was now also on his feet. "Seem like a case to you now, Sammy?"

"Really, Dean? You're using the death of a seven-year-old for your 'I told you so' moment?"

"Hey, I take what comes my way."

 **§§§§§**

Sam, situated at the table in their motel room, took to researching the story Heidi Stoughton had given them. Sure enough, there it was. "Shooting at Salem church: 7 dead, 4 wounded," he read off to Dean, who was lying on the bed staring blankly at the ceiling.

Dean sighed, sitting himself up. "Great," he replied with a roll of the eyes. "So we got 10 corpses and 4 almost-corpses. And no clue what's doing it."

"Well, I mean, it _is_ Tuesday," Sam responded with a smirk.

"Very funny," Dean said. "I'll tell you what I _do_ know, Sam. 4 wounded—that's good."

"How?" Sam scoffed, folding his arms across his chest.

"4 wounded means 4 witnesses. That we can talk to. Without performing a séance or some shit. 4 living, breathing witnesses to talk to."

"Alright, well, you get on that, then. I'll hang back, see what I can dig up about the cadavers. Hey—what was it you told Heidi Stoughton? It's going through families? How do you figure?"

Dean shrugged. "Call it a hunch. Whatever's going on took out Josette Stoughton _and_ her son? Clarissa Danforth _and_ her brother? Not to mention I'll bet high money a few of the names she gave us are either parent and child or husband and wife. Seemed like enough of a pattern to say Heidi needs to throw some salt over her shoulder for herself and her daughter."

Sam nodded slowly, turning to his laptop. "Good thinking," he said, opening the internet to follow up on his brother's suspicions. "Think it's a curse?"

Dean contorted his face. "Nah. If it were a curse, why bounce around between families? You'd think it'd latch itself onto one of them, right? Or at least finish one lineage before moving onto the next one. But unless I misunderstood, Clarissa's brother died before Josette but Clarissa died after. Doesn't line up."

"Damn," Sam sighed. "I'll find it—whatever it is. Go talk to those people. If we're lucky, maybe they'll have noticed changes in Clarissa's brother before the shooting."

"Sure thing, Sammy," Dean replied, grabbing his phone and heading outside.

After his brother was gone, Sam continued his researching, just like he'd promised. Playing off Dean's hunch, he decided to look into the history of the Stoughton family in Salem. As it stood, a William Stoughton was both Chief Justice and Chief Magistrate during the trials in the late 17th century. Knowing his line of duty, it couldn't have been coincidental, then, that Stoughtons were beginning to drop dead.

So he looked into the Danforth family. Then the Richards family. The Gedney family. The Winthrops. The Sewalls. Each turned up the same result—someone bearing the name was on the court.

"So a ghost maybe?" he said to himself, now researching the names of every single person who had been executed. "That would explain the hangings and the stoning," he continued. "A crazy, pissed off spirit of someone who died in vain. Seen it before."

 **§§§§§**

Dean, still wearing his suit from when they talked to Heidi Stoughton earlier in the day, cleared his throat as he approached the front desk of the hospital. He pulled out his falsified badge, prepared to offer it up to the receptionist.

He looked up to Dean, hearing his nearing footsteps. "Well, I'll be damned," he said coolly. "Police chief said the feds were in, but I didn't believe him."

"If you know who I am, then I assume you know what I came for."

"Course. Talk to the survivors. Which is grand and all, be my guest. But there's only one left—the other three are… we'll call them permanently indisposed."

"Dead."

"To put it bluntly."

Dean sighed, putting his badge back into his jacket. "What happened?"

"It's a bit bizarre, Agent… Sorry, I never asked for the badge. What's your name?"

"Lightfoot. Agent Lightfoot."

"Well, Lightfoot, these suicides don't sound like your wheelhouse. Hell, don't sound like _anyone's_ wheelhouse."

"Try me."

"Huland Corwin went first. Crazy son of a bitch kept asking for reading material—wouldn't stop for a good two weeks. We thought he was just an avid reader, but Jeanie Lowe walked in on the man stacking them on his lungs until he couldn't breathe anymore."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "Alright, yeah. That counts as bizarre."

"Kendra Hathorne was called maybe half hour later. Woman asked an orderly to draw her a bath and drowned herself in it. And the last of them was Bob Sergeant. Poor man hanged himself overnight."

"Suicides like this happen often here?" Dean asked with mild bemusement.

"Nope. Not until these three. Kind of freaked the whole hospital to hell and back, if you ask me. But anyway—only witness left is Kathy Dicer, but she's a bit off the rocker."

"I'll take whatever I can, uhm…" Dean examined him for a name tag. "Josh."

"Whatever you say, Agent." Josh pointed down the hallway to Dean's left. "Fourth door on the right," he directed.

"Thanks," Dean said, heading on his way.

Upon entering Kathy's room, Dean was greeted instantly by a fistful of salt to the chest. He raise his eyebrow suspiciously, taking a chair and nodding towards her bed, prompting her to assume a seat on its side cross from him.

"So you're not a ghost, then" she said calmly. "Good. That's good. I'm so tired of ghosts, Mister. So damn tired. They don't stop talking, you know. Just _shout_ —and they say the most awful things. Telling me to kill, people, Mister. Good people, too. People I grew up around. Got histories in this town, too. I mean, I can't just up and kill Josephine Hale, now can I? Woman's a _legacy_. Insufferable as the Devil himself, but a legacy nonetheless. Has a family tree in Massachusetts going back to the trial days. Course, things aren't looking too good in these parts for people like that. Been dropping like flies, it seems. Maybe it's the ghosts. Think the ghosts could be behind all this, Mister? I think the ghosts are behind it. There are so many of them in this town, Mister. Think they could have formed a cooperative? Like a union? Think they're out here killing people whose ancestors had a hand in their deaths? I think so. What else could it be? What I don't understand is why they closed the bullet hole for me. Donovan Danforth shot me dead in the heart, Mister, you know that? Right in the ticker. Boy had good aim. I should have been dead on impact, I think. But here I am—talking, breathing. I think the ghosts did it—because I'm not who they're after. I think they used poor Donovan as their conduit and took the pawn off the chessboard when they were done with him, that's what I think. And then, when Corwin, Hathorne, and Sergeant didn't die from what Donovan did to them, they just did it themselves. I don't think it was suicide, you know; don't think _any_ of the recent deaths were suicide. It was the ghosts, Mister. I swear, it had to have been the ghosts. I—what was your name again?"

"It's not important," he replied, his eyes wide. "Sorry to have bothered you, Miss Dicer. I'll be on my way."

"Watch your back, Mister. Don't want to end up like any of us have, do you now?"

 **§§§§§**

Just when he was about to call Sam, Dean's phone rang—an incoming call from his brother. He opened the car door and answered the phone as he slid in behind the wheel. Closing the door, he said, "I think I know what's on around here."

"So do I," Sam replied. "You thinking vengeful spirit?"

"Yeah," Dean affirmed. "I mean—not unexpected, right? I'm surprised we haven't heard of a pissed off ghost up here before now."

"You're right," Sam agreed. "I always assumed Salem would be, like, a hotbed for ghost activity."

"Well, according to the one survivor I… talked to, I guess, it is."

"I thought there were 4 survivors."

"There _were_ ," Dean confirmed, now halfway to their motel. It wasn't too far a drive from the hospital. "3 of them are dead now—suicide. The woman who's still alive was… a bit senile, I think. But she kept mentioning all the ghosts around here telling her to kill people—people whose families had a hand in the trials. Do me a favor—look up the history of the Dicer family in Salem."

"On it," Sam replied, opening his laptop again. "She happen to give you any names? There's a _lot_ of people that died unjustly here, Dean. Anyone's guess who's doing this."

"Not a ghost's name, no. But I'd keep an eye out for any news involving Josephine Hale—hell, _any_ Hales. She did mention her by name. She thinks ghosts are telling her to take Josephine out."

"Alright," Sam replied, continuing to search Kathy's family. "Hey, wait, I got something on the Dicers. They have a history here, but it's unlike any of the other vics. There was an Elizabeth Dicer accused of witchcraft, but she survived. Nothing about anyone in her line conducting trials or anything."

"No wonder she's still kicking, then. Kathy don't fit the profile."

"But why would the spirits be contacting her?"

"Who knows? Maybe they think she's on their side since her ancestor was innocent. Spirits are tricky."

"Makes sense, I suppose. But I'm not exactly sure how we're supposed to identify these ghosts. Besides, even if we can, the dead were put in mass graves and scattered about by family members. Those bones could be _anywhere_. Might not even be possible to find them."

"We'll figure something out, Sam."

"If you say so."

"This place is _full_ of hoodoo witch mojo," Dean scoffed. "If there's anywhere we'll be able to find a secondary way to deal with these sons of bitches, it's here, right? There's _got_ to be a real witch somewhere in these parts. And there's _got_ to be some kind of spell to get the job done. It's a statistical guarantee, wouldn't you think? We'll do it one way or another."

"Alright, Little Miss Sunshine. In the meantime, I'll keep digging up some dirt, see what I can find."

 **§§§§§**

"I still don't know why the FBI would be interested in these records," the librarian scoffed, pulling out boxes labelled 1692-1693 and handing them off to the Winchesters. Finally, once they'd taken the last of them, she stood and dusted off her pleated skirt. She looked up to the boys, her eyes going back and forth between the two. "It's not like there's a _ghost_ or something around here."

"What do you mean? Don't you pedal the company line?" Dean asked, inclining his head.

"Don't believe in the stuff. Been all over the world, it seems. Can't say I've ever found good evidence. Maybe it's a local thing. I've lived here for… quite some time, but I'm not from these parts. So I don't know. Perhaps you gotta be raised into those legends."

"Maybe," Dean replied with a shrug. "Well, believe me, these records help. It's classified information, so I can't give any other details, but it's definitely useful."

"Whatever you say, Agents," she said, pivoting on her heel to leave. Before she could get far, however, she stopped in her tracks. "Call me back over when you're through with them. Not that I don't trust the Bureau, but I can't very well let you go putting them away on your own. Might get it wrong."

"Sure thing," Sam assured. With that, she was on her way. Sam turned to his brother, taking the lid off a box. "What exactly are we looking for?"

Dean shrugged again. "Your guess is as good as mine, Sammy," he replied. "Anything that sounds helpful, I guess. Burial records would be fan-fricken-tastic, but that's a little out of the question."

Sam rolled his eyes.

The two began digging until Sam stumbled across something. "Dean—no wonder we've never heard of ghost activity around these parts," he said. Dean looked up to him, his eyebrows arched. "Someone already came through and burned every last corpse in town."

Dean pursed his lips, placing the files in his hands back in the box. "So then what's going _on_?"

"No idea," Sam sighed. "Well, guess we're back to square one. Where'd that librarian—oh, here she is! That was… strangely good timing," he said, his eyes wide when she stepped into the area.

"I was doing some rounds," she said coolly. "Figured I'd stop in. How's the search going, Agents? Find everything you need?"

Dean nodded slowly. "Yeah," he replied. "Sure."

She gave him a smirk as she began placing the boxes back in their respective places. Standing up to retrieve one, she ran into Dean accidentally. "Oh, dear God—I'm so sorry, Agent," she said, her voice frantic. "I can be so damn clumsy sometimes."

Dean had no reply.

 **§§§§§**

The Winchesters had returned to their motel with less of a lead than they'd left with. And a division.

Sam still thought vengeful spirit was a perfectly viable hypothesis. After all, it wouldn't be the first time they'd seen the ghost of someone whose bones had been burned already. However, Dean was beginning to think it could be something else—perhaps witchcraft. They were, as it stood, _surrounded_ by the stuff; odds would say there had to be someone who legitimately practiced.

"Why would a modern day witch be after these people, Dean?" Sam argued. "It doesn't line up. No—a spirit's all it _could_ be."

"Alright, well, if you're so smart, tell me what they're tethered to."

Sam went silent.

"Exactly my point. No foothold, no remains—no spirit. It's basic science, Sam. It's got to be witchcraft." He was pacing, but stopped as he came to a realization. "That librarian—tell me nothing seemed off about her."

"Nothing seemed off about her."

" _Really_?" Dean scoffed. "How did she know exactly when we were ready?"

"She told you—she was making rounds. Coincidences _can_ happen, you know, Dean."

"Not to us; not in this line of work."

"Look, I don't know what to tell you. She seemed like a perfectly fine lady."

"She ran into me."

"Right, and?"

"Well, maybe it was intentional."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Right. Sure. Trust nobody."

"Think about it, Sam. She was definitely shady."

"You're crazy."

Dean opened his mouth to say something back, but found himself incapable. In the time it took Sam to tilt his head, his brother was doubled over, hands clutching his stomach. He backed up until he landed on the bed where he began coughing blood and water profusely onto his lap. "Find—it's a witch, Sa—find the h-hex—find the bag," he said, trying to communicate between bouts of coughing.

Sam nodded curtly and began tearing the room apart digging for the hex bag. Apparently his brother was right. He finally found the thing once he cut into the mattress with his knife. Holding it in his hand, he set it ablaze and threw it to the ground. Dean took in a deep breath and spit out what blood remained in his mouth. Gaining his strength back, he glared up at his brother. "Still think it's not a witch, Sam?"

 **§§§§§**

The instant Dean was up to it (which was about ten minutes after the hex incident), the brothers headed out on a hunt for Sarah Good, their suspect number one. Their first stop was the library, naturally. However, it was somewhat late in the evening, so the place was, of course, closed. As such, it was time for Plan B.

They split up—Sam was dropped at the police station and Dean headed off towards the hospital. The hope was either Sam could find a way to pinpoint where she was or Dean could find her using Kathy Dicer. Neither plan was ideal, and neither plan was a given. But they'd be damned if they didn't at least give them each a shot.

Sam, at the station, began digging up everything he could on Sarah—starting, of course, by looking for a real name, under the assumption Sarah Good was no more than a pseudo.

"Yeah, of course I know Sarah," the deputy informed, his eyes wide. "Good gal; keeps her nose clean. Is she in trouble, Agent?"

"More than you could imagine."

The deputy's breath began shaking. "Look, Agent. I don't know what's going on. But Sarah Good is a citizen of this town—and an upstanding one at that. Unless you can give me some legitimate reasoning here, I can't just let you do whatever. I don't know how you run it down in DC, but we like to play by the rules up here."

Sam rolled his eyes. "I need to question her—I _really_ need to question her."

"Why? She do something?"

"Maybe. Maybe not. I wouldn't know. I haven't been able to _fucking question her_."

The deputy sighed, his lips pursed. "You can bring her in to question, I guess. But _only_ to question. I don't want to hear that you laid a God-given hand on that woman, understand? This is already completely out of line for our establishment. Consider it a favor."

"Great," Sam replied. "Would you be so kind as to tell me how to reach her."

The deputy scowled, but picked up a pen from the desk and wrote a phone number on Sam's hand regardless. "Call that."

"Thank you, deputy."

Dean's search, meanwhile, was equally as eventful. The second he stepped into the hospital, he was greeted by Josh, again, but this time he was different. More reserved, less sociable. As if he'd seen a ghost, even.

"Josh," Dean greeted coolly.

No reply.

"Josh. It's Agent Lightfoot. I was here a day or two ago. You told me about the suicides; I talked to Kathy Dicer. I thought we had a connection, here."

No reply.

Dean, noticing Josh's glassy expression, waved a hand over his face. No reply, again.

"Damn it," he sighed. He climbed over the reception desk and slid Josh's chair out. Sure enough, the man's pants were drenched in blood. Blood and water. Like at the motel. Dean let out a sigh, pushing the chair back in. He headed rapidly down the hall to find Kathy Dicer, hoping beyond hope that _maybe_ she was lucid.

She was alive, sure, but she was still evidently dazed. However, when he'd met her before, she was docile. Somewhat mental, sure, but docile. As he approached her now, the look in her eyes kept telling him he should be on his way.

"I know who you're looking for," she said, her voice even and monotone.

Dean inclined his head. "Can you tell me where to find her, then?"

"Mary says you're in over your head."

"Excuse me?"

"Mary says you should be dead by now. Mary says she's impressed you managed to survive her spellwork."

"Who's Mary?"

"Mary says you're smart. Mary admires that in you. But Mary says you need to learn to watch your back better."

Before Dean could answer, he felt a searing pain in his left leg that caused him to drop to the floor.

"Mary says it didn't have to end up this way."

§§§§§

Sam dialed the number the deputy had given him and, sure enough, a woman picked up the other end.

"What happened? Couldn't find your way here?" she taunted.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"Playing a fun game. Seeing how much I can stack on your brother's chest before he bites it. They used to _love_ to do executions like this back in the day, you know. Honestly, until just now—no, no, until Huland Corwin, really—I never got the appeal. But I get it now. There's something so brutally fascinating about it."

Sam said nothing, but she could hear his angry breath on the other line.

"Oh, calm down, now. There's plenty for the both of you. I'm not hiding, you know. Wouldn't have answered the phone if I didn't want you to come play with me. We're waiting."

With that, she hung up. She put the phone down and looked over to Kathy, who was still as expressionless and lifeless as ever. "Kathy, be a dear and go get some more material. Agent Lightfoot and I have a lot to discuss."

"Mary says she needs more books," Kathy said aloud before heading out to retrieve some for her.

" _God_ , she's so efficient. Should have brought her on earlier," Mary said to herself. She looked down to Dean with a smirk. "How you doing, there?"

He scowled up to her, but said nothing.

"Thought so. I've been trying to figure it out—what did me in? I knew you and your 'partner' were hunters the second you came in, but I didn't expect you to be on my trail so damn soon."

"Bite me," Dean breathed.

Mary rolled her eyes. "I have a confession to make—you'll be dead once Kathy gets back here, so it's not like it changes much. Would you believe me if I said my name isn't Sarah Good?"

"Bite me."

"Yeah, I know. Surprised no one found it out. That name is plastered all over this town; the real girl, poor thing, was executed for witchcraft in my day. Damn shame, too. You know, those bastards were all onto something. Sure, no one that actually _died_ was a witch, but some of us really were. Guess they just didn't have the right equipment to handle us. But no matter. I've gotten great pleasure out of destroying their lineages one bastard kid at a time. Why take so long, you ask? Well, I took a bit of extended leave off in England—in my native town. Fled from Massachusetts after being—albeit accurately—accused my damn self, and finally got around to making it back. And I'd say I waited a damn good amount of time. There are _so_ many descendants nowadays, and I never tire of any of this. Gets more thrilling each time." There were footsteps down the hall. "That's probably the other one," she said coolly.

Sure enough, Sam Winchester walked in, dragging behind him Kathy Dicer's now dead body. Entering the room, he dropped it to the ground. "Some advice: make your attack dogs stronger next time."

She smirked, but extended a hand to him. "Mary Bradbury," she introduced. "Nice to make your acquaintance. But you're a bit late to story time, I'm afraid."

"Don't care."

"Straight to business kind of guy. I can respect that."

Sam pulled a gun from his back pocket, at which Mary scoffed. "Come on. You don't _really_ think that can kill me, do you?"

"One way to find out," he said, shooting her dead between the eyes. When she dropped to the floor, he leaned over and whispered, "Witch-killing bullets, bitch."

Finally, he kicked the stack of books off his brother's chest and hoisted him up. With Sam at the wheel, the brothers drove back to the bunker.


End file.
